


Mathematics and Murder

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drama, M/M, Mystery, Professor Moriarty - Freeform, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smoking, Sort of Johnlock sometime, Student Sherlock, Teacher-Student Relationship, casefic kind of, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:11:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's new Calculus professor started out as a specimen pinned to a board, something for him to dissect and file away before inevitably getting bored. Somehow, the aspiring sleuth can't get a complete image of the man to form, and the mysteriously-instated Professor Moriarty seems to take a liking to having Sherlock's attention.  Both seem to realize that they may have met their match, and yet Sherlock begins to dig a little too deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic, and I'm a JimLock fan 8Y 
> 
> I'll be adding tags as this progresses, depending on when I update. Enjoy!

“Professor Moriarty; welcome to Calculus.” Sherlock watched as the man— Irish, dark hair, hooded eyes, somewhere between the ages of 25 and 30, 1.78 meters tall and approximately 68 kilograms— smiled in front of the marker board. The University prided themselves in appropriate attire, but this professor seemed to take even that a level up. His suit was fitted and finely pressed without a single crease, and was a deep blue instead of the average (and cheaper) black. The younger Holmes himself knew the income the man acquired was substantial, meaning he had another well-paying career before becoming this school’s professor. Private universities definitely have a large salary to offer, but whatever his previous job was may have even paid more: so why? Given the slightest glimpse of stubble over his chin and creases on his forehead and under his eyes he ventured (no, deduced) the man lost sleep over his work, and yet clearly had time to take care of himself otherwise. His hair had more product in it than Sherlock witnessed even amongst his “peers” and his eyebrows were perfectly symmetrical.

All-in-all, the new professor for maths was easy to read and yet something entirely new. Especially when he took long strides over to his desk, a slanted grin crossing his features and showing his expensive tie pin glint under the lights. He was _definitely_ something new. It would take no more than fifteen minutes of lecture for him to be fully analyzed, Sherlock had no doubt. His Irish lilt ebbed away slowly as he spoke trill of the class and its syllabi: excellent, so he’d been in London for quite some time and his accent was changeable depending on surroundings. When he spoke he took steps, keeping his shoulders level and yet always seeming to look side to side in a reptilian fashion, determined to have every square inch of the room aware of its master.  He carried himself as though he were taller, keeping his presence as one of high stature and power and compensating for his lower-than-average vertical coverage. It didn’t mean he was cocky, however, though he seemed rather ambitious and brusque for his first year teaching at the university.

“Right then, I trust you all to read the rest of this on your own time,” Professor waved his hand with the printed out syllabus, the paper making and obnoxious crinkling as the air caused it to bend back and forth before finally just being dropped carelessly. Erratic behavior, he added. His other professors wouldn’t throw anything in regards to their class intentionally. “So, let’s get straight into this stuff, shall we?” He clapped his hands and spun on his expensive heels, retracing his steps to the desk and retrieving a marker. He glanced up, hooded eyes appearing black in the fierceness of the action. As if under a spell, the class simultaneously withdrew notebooks or borrowed paper. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow for the shortest moment, though he was sure the professor noticed it, given the grin in his direction as the professor straightened. Sherlock got his pencil, waving it between fingers. Calculus was boring and useless. Delete it later, after an exam more effectively.

“We’ll begin with a basic review. Since this is Calculus one I’m under the impression you’ve all been conditioned to understand most students fail. Let’s try to make some increases in intelligence during our semester together.” The man looked over his shoulder and smiled again. Sherlock would be surprised if there were a phrase he could utter without a smile and sounding completely charming. “Precalculus, obviously, is a _pre_ requisite, and thus if you have not taken it yet, kindly exit the classroom and know it won’t be completely embarrassing for you to do so now.” The man turned his back to the class and began writing on the board— Left-handed and gripping the marker in a firm grip, implying he held his pens even more uncomfortably. Sherlock’s brain registered and instantly deleted the sound of the classroom door opening and closing. The professor was already speaking, his voice smooth and silky even while listing terms and mathematical properties. His mind deleted that as well, it did not aid his deductions.

Unlike other professors, Moriarty did not drone on and on, and yet he rarely took pauses in his teachings. When a hand was raised for a question he’d simply asked what it was without needing to turn around, as if expecting it. The befuddled student and class only registered it as peculiar and continued on with asking for clarification. Sherlock’s lips quirked up in amusement. He himself lost track of time listening to the voice of the young professor speak passionately about such a boring topic, and his fingers scribble unintelligible notes word for word. He jolted out of his trance as the chimes for the end of class sounded, and his classmates once again became cattle to stampede out the door. Sebastian Wilkes, stout and bulky and yet the only one that frequently offered to have Sherlock over for studying purposes (the held-back senior took pride in helping Sherlock solve his math equations, professing he wanted to be in bank management), chuckled with his buddies as they bumped Sherlock’s shoulders in passing. Sherlock grumbled, turning in his seat and stuffing his notebook back into his shoulder bag with his laptop. He waited for the last of the herd to pass before standing, straightening the jacket of the school’s ridiculous uniform after slinging the strap over his shoulder, striding to the door.

Even though he kept his face devoid and eyes on the door, he felt the hair on his skin rise as another all-too-familiar piercing look was felt. He glanced over, of course seeing the Professor leaning against the board, tossing the eraser in his hand. “Learn anything today, Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock, though taken aback, swallowed the lump in his throat, only causing his Adam’s apple to bob.

“I’ve learned quite enough, Professor, though not on the subject.” His steps still faltered next to the exit of the room. His next class was pointless, anyways. What good would a speech class do him?

“Oh?” Moriarty tilted his head, not misplacing a single hair. “Share the joke, would you?”

“No,” Sherlock mused, turning away again. “Good day, Professor.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty mumbled, a petulant tone to his voice. Changeable indeed, manic at moments: swapping between professional, confident, and childish. Perhaps some sort of mental disorder, though unlikely, as his attention span may have hindered the ability to teach. Psychological, then. Sociopath? Sherlock knew enough on that subject, yet everyone seemed so boring in comparison to him.

No, he’d never find someone with a similarity to him.

 

After the Speech class, Sherlock followed the queue of students to the cafeteria. His appetite was a curious thing, and yet his older brother was insistent on eating at least a morsel at school, to keep his mind sharp. Bollocks, he’d said, and went weeks purposely dodging Mycroft and doing the opposite of what he said at the end of their Christmas break until nearly collapsing from exhaustion. He did it for his mind, not his brother’s lackluster concern. He grabbed an orange out from a basket before breaking the line in un-British fashion, going to a table against the windows. Without fail several seconds later and two chunks of Orange in, Sebastian and his pals dropped down next to him.

“You’re gonna need me to tutor you with that class too, won’t you, Holmes?” Sebastian elbowed the younger man’s ribs. His pals, men Sherlock never paid much attention to as they seemed to haunt Sebastian everywhere he walked, chuckled before digging in to their gruel. Average men with average practical professions taking up all their mind-space. How simple everything must be with them.

“I’ll have to see how the first few lectures go,” Sherlock mumbled, prying another piece of orange. “I’ll surely ask if needed.”

“Right, precalc was enough of an ass and a half to get through your head. You don’t remember a thing about it, do you! I’ll have to go over that just to teach you this stuff.”

“I didn’t need it anymore, so I deleted it.”

“Deleted, right, that’s the word you use.” Sebastian chuckled, bringing a forkful of something to his mouth. Edward Van Coon, sitting across from Sebastian and leaving the seat in front of Sherlock empty, speaks up.

“Don’t tell me: you already know what color socks he was wearing, don’t you?”

“You said not to tell you.” Sherlock remarked under his breath, causing Sebastian and Edward to guffaw in laughter.

“Jesus, I wouldn’t believe you could do that if I hadn’t seen it in action way too many times already. Go on, share your findings. He’s an alien that grew eyes in the back of his head?” Sebastian leans back, dangerously testing the stability of the benches the school provided for chairs.

“If Dubliners are aliens, I suppose yes.”

“Dublin!” Edward exclaimed, leaning back. “I knew he sounded off. He’s a leprechaun.” Sebastian laughed while Sherlock only rolled his eyes. Van Coon was far too easily amused and entranced by anything not involving England, being the exchanger from the states he was. He’d transferred over his Freshman year and hadn’t bothered to go home since, despite claiming London was too wet and he’d rather be in warmer climates traveling. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t know why he’d taken the time to learn about the strange exchange student when he’d arrived back in secondary school. Nothing about him was interesting, he simple entangled himself in his affairs because of Sebastian’s tutoring.

“Next Sherly will be writing Professor Moriarty a score in Gaelic.” Sebastian chuckled, drinking his milk that was a day from expiration. Given he was mildly lactose intolerant (though he had no idea) it would probably resort to him being absent the next day or at least very uncomfortable for the rest of the night. What a pity. He ate the next slice of his orange, eyes wandering out the window to view the courtyard devoid of students due to the winter chill. Edward and Sebastian conversed, ignoring Sherlock as they so frequently did. Ian Monkford joined them shortly, having a meager packed lunch along with him that earned him the slightest dose of ridicule as well. Sherlock’s mind palace was well under construction as he currently filed away his knowledge of sheet music from the 1800s.

“Holmes, you’re gonna be late for Composition,” Sebastian’s palm made hard contact on Sherlock’s shoulder, throwing him out the doors of his palace. Sherlock scowled but let his eyes move to the clock on the wall, sliding off of his bench seat.

“Thank you, Seb.”

“Just looking out for my _favorite_ detective.” Sebastian waved over his shoulder, the trio of men chuckling as Sherlock walked with purpose out of the cafeteria. Composition class was neither exciting nor meaningful. Sherlock’s ability to write was unparalleled, at least to the point where he could write a personal blog and come across older than he was with his clever writings and vocabulary. The blog was his documentation for all his life’s work. Few people came to him to solve their so-called mysteries, but most of his website was dedicated to his experimentations. Part of him missed having Chemistry last semester. He wouldn’t be able to nick all the test tubes and beakers he needed in a pinch after the others he owned exploded.

However, Composition would bearable as the professor, Mrs. Hudson, was the sweetest woman Sherlock had ever shared company with. Often during Sherlock’s sophomore year, he would have to intervene in the middle of his Introduction to Literature class to defend the woman’s title of professor, whether she had earned her degree yet or not. He was reminded of grandmother-like figures in her presence, though he did not know his own, she seemed to fill that space. She was blunt, honest, yet remarkably bright and understanding for a woman of her position and age. That, and Sherlock quite thought she favored him. Having her as his professor for yet another class only a year later would be welcome even if the space the unnecessary information on résumé writing took up in his mind was not.

“Afternoon, class!” Her aged voice brought the slightest image of a smile to Sherlock’s face as he got to his seat right on time.

 

The car came for Sherlock exactly two minutes after classes ended, giving him time to get his things and procure more science equipment. He hated the always-shining and tinted windows of the car, but slid in anyways. Mycroft, his older and _far-more-successful_ (mummy’s wording) graduated brother sat on the other side of the backseat.

“Afternoon, brother dear.”

“Mycroft.  Not a day off, I see, but a dentist appointment within the next hour.” Sherlock kept his face devoid of emotion. Mycroft gave him the signature scowl that made him look much, much older than the younger Holmes. He was stern, tactful, and very business-oriented, only made not-boring by how fun it was to harass him. With his position within the government safely secured he’d have nothing to fear within Europe as long as the Queen had a say. Sherlock pitied him. While the law was important it was entirely dull to keep classified information and worry about others’ safety instead of the thrill of an adventure.

“How was your first day back since holiday?” Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s deduction, as he always did. Sherlock’s thoughts instantly flew to Calculus class. He wondered how frequently he would need to request Seb’s audience, as he was the only man willing to tolerate Sherlock. He envied the man’s patience, and he was close enough to whatever other, normal people would call friends. Even more, Calculus class with a new teacher, that as far as Sherlock knew, turned up out of the blue after the previous professor disappeared over holiday. Disappeared, as in, turned in a notice of resignation the last day of classes and was never heard from since. Sherlock knew hiding out in the chemistry lab cabinets would earn him some useful gossiping information and acidic chemicals. Added to these things, was the professor’s character itself. He was young to be a professor at a private university: youngest on record. Obviously incredibly intelligent, given how he eloquently explained and reworded teachings that may have been confusing. His voice changed with his mood, and his eyes always had some dark glimmer that Sherlock could still see clearly every time he blinked. His face staring back at him as he’d looked up from his desk and given him that short, knowing grin.

“Uneventful.” Sherlock affixed the seatbelt across his torso as the driver eased his way back onto the road.

 

“Mr. Holmes, would you care to solve this equation for the class?” Sherlock looked up from his paper, fingers steepled under his chin. He hadn’t been paying attention, naturally, going through his mind palace to find what he knew about specific suit tailors. Moriarty’s attire today was really bothering him as he’d seen it somewhere before, a very particular brand, and yet it escaped him. Nothing a bit of digging wouldn’t fix.

“No, thank you.” He said, mumbling only due to how his lips hit the side of his fingers. There was a half second’s pause before Seb and some other boys around him gave chuckles. Seb was paler today, it seemed. Probably from a lack of sleep do to discomfort of the abdomen.

“Very well. Mr. Wilkes?” Moriarty’s attention was gone from Sherlock, to the now-silent super senior of the room.

“Yes, sir.” He stood without grace and went to the front of the room, taking the offered marker and getting to work. Sherlock kept his head declined towards his paper, but his eyes were fixed to the front of the room. Looking through the parts of his curling hair was tricky and yet a practiced skill. It wasn’t hard to see the glances the Professor made in his direction, as if wondering if he was actually paying attention. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and removed his elbows from the desk, sitting back in his seat properly. Professor Moriarty’s lips twitched to an awkward skew of a smile until the sound of a marker cap going back into its place was heard.

“Well done, Mr. Wilkes. Let’s run this down just once more.”

 

The bell rang after several more examples littered the board. Sherlock barely heard the noise until Sebastian’s buddies nudged him again, rousing him from the trip in his mind palace. He sorted his things quickly and stood, making for the exit.

“Stage fright, Mr. Holmes?” Unsurprisingly the professor remarked, stopping Sherlock short of the shut door his classmates disappeared beyond.

“No.” The younger Holmes frowned, his face once again stony and indifferent. The professor cracked a grin, licking his lips: another habit Sherlock had taken note of.

“You’re proving quite argumentative, Mr. Holmes.”

“On the contrary. I think I’m rather agreeable.” Sherlock inclined another eyebrow as this seemed to make milk-chocolate eyes darken considerably on the other male. He simply hummed, quite loudly, high pitched and with a made-up rhythm.

“Agreeable, huh. I rather like hearing yes, but even more after a bit of a fight.” The professor’s grin widened more, showing his teeth. Sherlock already found he’d have to have had them bleached regularly, as British or even Irish dentistry couldn’t be that wonderful with the water supply. Though what was new to add to his mind palace was the heavy feeling that weighed down his throat and stomach at the words. He didn’t…understand? That was new. Unacceptable.

“Westwood.” He said suddenly, eying Moriarty’s collar. The older professor tilted his head cartoonishly. “Your suit. The stitching was too different from Dolce and Gabbana, and Prada rarely offers a three piece suit in charcoal. Considering what you wore yesterday and the price of your watch and shoes you wouldn’t settle for an unknown brand from a local shop. Westwood fits.” He said the word again as though it needed to be repeated, whether for comprehension, or even supporting his own facts. It had taken him long enough to deduce that, though he knew the professor somehow afforded several suits of varying colors that were over a thousand pounds each. Moriarty’s eyes widened, his pristine eyebrows shooting up his hairline considerably.

Sherlock averted his eyes quickly, pulling the bag over his neck and readjusting the collar of the uniform. This was the part where he laughed at him, or told him a lie, or completely berated him for being so nosy. It had happened many a time before and _oh_ Sherlock had never taken much care to notice that Sebastian was the only one to do all of those things and still speak to him. Mycroft and Mummy would be furious to hear Sherlock had shown off, again. But the conclusion was so fresh in his mind and it just had to be screamed from a rooftop.

“Brilliant,” he stopped, realizing his hand was already on the handle for the classroom. “Marvelous, really. On day two? That’d be what you meant by not learning the subject. You’re a piece of work, Mr. Holmes.” Moriarty’s voice was smooth like a river and yet still had the intensity of a waterfall crashing onto rocks below. A piece of work? That wasn’t particularly an insult, he thought. Words and terms for others weren’t something Sherlock kept tabs on.

“Pardon?”

“No apologies needed, dear.” Moriarty waved his hand with flair, just as he had the day before. “Keep that brain in top shape, will you? I’d be interested in hearing you vocalize what you make of me. Or anyone, really. Your voice is tantalizing when you talk so surely, that little hitch in it when you start getting excited, just a little, like you can’t stop talking until everyone knows how clever you are.”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. _Oh,_ he thought, and it was the only thing that seemed to fill his mind at that instant. No more whirling ideas battling for his attention, just that and the beautiful man in front of him, praising him. Not only had he not been laughed at or thrown aside but he—he’d been inspected as well. He didn’t even take notice if his voice altered slightly when he spoke. Moriarty’s chuckle brought him out of his reverie as the man waved his hand in front of Sherlock’s face. Manicured, too.

“Throw you for a loop? I apologize, I shouldn’t get your gears turning so early in the day. You’ve got all your other classes to do that for you!” The professor pushed Sherlock’s shoulder so he faced the doorway so fast he doubted a camera would have picked it up. “Classes that you will be late for. Off you pop! See you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes.”

“Professor.” Sherlock heard the hitch in his voice there, feeling those firm mathematical hands gripping his shoulders through two layers of heavy winter uniform to redirect him. His hand shot to the handle and he left the room quickly, his steps still with purpose but much more hurried. He’d have plenty to reorganize in his mind palace while the instructor of Speech toddled on about nonsense. 


	2. The Powers Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock should be focusing on his studies, how can he be expected to when something more delightfully interesting occupied his mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo sorry for the delay, with uh, everything. This chapter has been in the works for a loooong time. I wanted to make sure it was perfect, since this chapter is a lot more plot-related than Jimlock setting. The next chapter will do that, whenever I happen to get that out.
> 
> Thanks for being so patient, I really do love writing this fic.

The next week for Sherlock was a blur. Being thrown for a loop was—impossible, the turn of phrase wasn’t even befitting. He was _distracted_ and nothing else needed to be sifted through in his intelligence except for this fact. The first day was Thursday, when he sent a brief text to Mycroft during lunch.

[SMS: Fatty] Send my violin with the car. And money for a cab. May or may not be home for dinner.

Mycroft tried to convince him that it was impractical to stay at the school to play violin, but Sherlock was unwavering. A few pleasantries and expressing his direness of the situation got the request pulled through. The last bell for class rang and he’d never been the first out of the classroom before. He was out of body that day, not a single word heard in his classes including spending all of lunch in the speech instructor’s room just due to his negligence. He left the school to find the black car pulled up, opening the backseat ruthlessly. He retrieved an envelope and his violin case, shutting the door as the driver tried to convey some of Mycroft’s words to him. Pointless data, he scowled and stomped back into the building to the basement.

His blood was boiling. He couldn’t make it a single moment longer without his violin and he needed it like the boring oxygen his vessel required. Mycroft was wrong—he wouldn’t make it through a car ride home. He needed this now, the silence of a sound-boosting room with grey walls and no one in after hours. He didn’t even get the door kicked shut before he had the clasps of his violent case open and the polished wood nuzzled under his chin. The first pull of the bow made a low note, rough and shaky. Sherlock breathed to steady his shaking hands, fluidly adding some rosin to the bow before trying again.

His eyes closed as his fingers moved to the notes by Pablo de Sarasate, his piece he’d been trying to learn and recompose for weeks. The only recordings of the sound itself were useless, laced in static and bad recording methods. Sheet music was the Holmes’s only lifeline and finding copies of it online was an easy enough task. It was slow, letting his shoulder relax for the first time all day as he played.

By the time he’d played the song too many times to recall, recording some scratches in a notebook for later, it was past dinner time. A knock on the door of the sound booth finally made him turn back to the door left ajar. The janitor, eyebrow raised, thumbed behind him. Around sixty years of age, old wedding ring on his ring finger that was scuffed with age and frequently being handled. A nervous habit, likely, a divorce he didn’t agree with.

“Clubs are all out, mate. You should get home.” Sherlock lowered his violin and bow, looking at his scrawling of a madman, tensing as he must look a right fool.

“Yes, apologies for keeping you.”

“I just gotta lock the door behind you. Least I heard ya playin’ down here. ‘Nother concert coming up?” The man watched as Sherlock put away the instrument and stuffed the notebook into his satchel, leaving the room.

“I can’t say I know.” He ignored the worker as he headed up the stairs and out, doors locked behind him. He called for a cab, fingers sore but sated. His mind however, was not. Halfway back to the Holmes estate, eyes watching out the windows, he sat forward.

“Stop the cab.” The gentleman driving looked at him oddly, but Sherlock pushed the door open. “I’ll be just a moment.” He assured, not shutting the rear passenger door all the way to properly convey he was not going anywhere. He hopped up the steps to the station. The rattling of coins in a cup brought his eyes to a bench.

“Spare change, sir?”

“What for?” Sherlock got the slightest smile as the young woman, old knit hat tugged over her ears and a shawl around her shoulders, brightened.

“A cup of tea, o’course.”  Sherlock pulled a twenty pound bill from his pocket, folding it between two fingers. The girl reached for it, and he handed it over, being sure the slip of notebook paper he tore out of his scrawled notebook composing was in sight.

“Keep the change. There’s a good café by Northumberland Uni.”

“Thank you kindly, lad.” The girl pulled her knees up. Sherlock nodded and turned, entering the cab quickly. With a wave to the cabby and a glance out the window he saw the girl unfolding the slip of paper with the name he needed more information on:

Carl Powers.

 

Friday was no better. The car Mycroft sent him to school with was dull as ever and Sherlock saw no sign of the girl from the night before. When the car came to a stop, the driver handed Sherlock another envelope. He took it, sliding it into his pocket as he stepped out of the car, hanging onto the handle of his violin. Mycroft assumed it would be another late night, and Sherlock was thankful he wouldn’t distract his thoughts with having to send another text.

Twice in Calculus he had a ruler slapped onto his desk, only serving to have his eyes refocus a glare to a smirking Moriarty. Aside from that, the teacher gave nothing away, continuing as if he had all his students’ attentions. The second time the ruler hit his desk was after the bell had rung. Sherlock ran fingers through his hair and stood, wishing he had the music of Vivaldi or something to organize his thoughts.

“Lose sleep, Mr. Holmes?”

“Thinking.” He grumbled, heading to the door. The sooner classes were done with the better. It was so hard to concentrate on what was important in this setting.

“Thinking, right, right…not about your studies obviously. I hope you find what you’re digging for!” The man trilled, probably waving in some exuberant manner. Sherlock didn’t look back, leaving the room still deep in thought.

Carl Powers—age 36, two years older than Professor Moriarty. _Possible connection._ Graduate of Oxford on a swimming and mathematics scholarship. Degree in teaching and again, mathematics. 2002, hired to teach in Northumberland Uni—Sherlock’s Uni. Mixed approval ratings of students, high paid teaching Trigonometry and three levels of Calculus a semester. Sent an e-mail to the super intendant announcing his sudden leave December 18 th. Has since been reported missing, and unsearched for.

Why had the Yard not taken notice to this? He shouldn’t be surprised, really. The man had been missing since the midst of December: that was nearly a month now. He’d either fled the country or wound up in the Thames.

But _why?_

He couldn’t stand it. His bones itched and his mind swam and wouldn’t stop. Thoughts shouting over each other so loudly as he tried to place them in order and yet he had the worst thing in his mind he could have: an empty space.

Nothing. He had no solution, and he needed one.

The bell ending his next class assaulted his ears. At least time wasn’t relevant when he repeated what he knew to try seeing something new. What made Carl Powers disappear? Why was there no report of him being missing on record? It was almost as if everything related to Carl Powers last year was just abridged, and everything erased from existence. _He_ was erased. Sherlock hoped the network would have more answers than his internet searches were giving him. He forgot lunch again, sitting in the desk until he was ushered to his next class. Mrs. Hudson once again was easy to tune out with her soft words and occasional waffling. Her class went by easily, Sherlock allowing his brain to finish repeating its mantra as the students filed out before him.

“Sherlock, dear, are you feeling ill?” Mrs. Hudson hovered by his side. Sherlock set his folded hands down on his desk.

“No, Mrs. Hudson. My mind is on other things.”

“You were like this yesterday too, though. Really not that healthy, dear. Let that big brain of yours take a rest.”

“That must be pleasant for all you normal people to do.” Sherlock muttered as though it would lessen the offense the older woman may take to the statement. He stood from his seat and Mrs. Hudson stepped away, almost cowering. It was obviously because her husband had been abusing her. He put it in the back of his mind to uncover that. “Mrs. Hudson, did you know the old Maths teacher here?”

“Well, Angelo isn’t that much older than I am, dearie.”

“No, not of old age. I mean the professor that took his leave.” Sherlock frowned, folding his hands behind his back.

“Oh, Mr. Powers…I never much spoke to him. Rather rude bloke to be honest. But don’t tell anyone I said that, Mrs. Turner would spread a sea of rumors.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. If you do happen to recall anything, I’d be pleased to know.” Sherlock pulled the bag over his neck, stepping over to the door.

“That’s what your episode is about, is it? Should I give your mum a call?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson. It’s simply curiosity.” He smiled down at the woman before taking his leave quickly, smile immediately gone once he’d turned his back. No help whatsoever. He cursed himself. Who else could there be to interrogate? He wasn’t about to tell Mycroft, not after the last time he got his teeth into a case that turned out to be “national security”. Honestly, if it was so secure it wouldn’t be on his bedside table.

He didn’t bother with another class, wishing he’d had this initiative in the morning. Immediately he bypassed the halls and returned to the music rooms. He chose the same sound box as the previous night, setting his notebook out to avoid having to stop his thought process again. His mind, to Mrs. Hudson’s suggestion, had been distracted for the slightest of moments. He sat, violin on his lap as he plucked the strings.

“Carl powers: age 36, two years older than Professor Moriarty, possible connection…” He said aloud to the empty room, plucking at the strings like a slow metronome. His eyes slid shut in a blink, letting all the suppressed-for-a-whole-three-minutes thoughts assault his ever-expanding mind palace.

He opened his eyes and found the rooms dark. His thumb plucked the last string of his violin before sitting up, setting the instrument in its case. He looked out into the hallway of the music wards, seeing that everything was shut down. A clock ticked above the door, reading ten prior to midnight. He stepped back into the sound box, not bothering with the lights. The janitor from the night before had probably saved himself the trouble of checking the more-than-likely empty rooms and had just hit the breaker. He packed away his things, satchel slung and violin in one hand. He withdrew his phone and tapped away at the screen, then paused. He dropped it back into his pocket and headed upstairs.

[SMS: _Unsent_ Fatty] If convenient, unlock the doors of the school. Unlock anyway if inconvenient.

He hopped up the stairs, derby shoes quiet on the steps. Most normal students probably found the idea of a school after-dark terrifying and creepy. It gave Sherlock a thrill—this was the time for real investigation. He returned to the first floor, stepping around the secretary’s station. The door to the counter was left unlocked, which was unsurprising given the other amounts of security in regards to dangerous science chemicals. He walked in, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Computer screens were left alone and filing cabinets alphabetizing students stood closed. Sherlock shook his head, turning his eyes to the back of the room where the headmaster’s office was.

Security was pathetic, really. It was a wonder what Sherlock’s pocket lock-picking kit could do for him. The headmaster’s door was pulled open in under a minute. The room could have benefited with a window but Sherlock stepped in effortlessly, letting his violin case down to free his hand. The file cabinet across the room wasn’t even locked, considering it was likely that the headmaster would be looking into it often enough to not want the hassle. Curious, he frowned. The information, if it was as secretive as it was proving, wouldn’t be there. He took a few careful steps before kneeling next to the desks, reviewing the drawers. The top contained numerous office supplies for quick use, the second containing more personal affects like headphones and a phone charger. With a roll of his eyes he checked the third, large drawer that stored confiscated paraphernalia and empty bottles.

With another narrowed glance into the dimmed room, he settled his eyes on the thin drawer along the bottom of the countertop. The lock was visible, shining gold and new. He gave an experimental tug: locked. Promising. His lock pick made quick work, doing his best to not leave visible scratch marks to show the lock had been tampered with. He eased himself back, eyeing the plush leather chair of the super intendant. With a smirk he rose, elegantly dropping back into it as he pulled the drawer to his chest. Papers covered the area within, numerous manila envelopes and other folders. Headmaster Doyle wasn’t looking like the most organized of people now, Sherlock’s fingers flicking through the leaflets.

He caught a few names of professors, one being Moriarty. With a scowl his eyes skimmed before forcing it back into the drawer. He knew enough about the professor. He was a riddle that only he wanted to discover, no searching required. Unless it was called for on his computer, but as of yet nothing aside from the man’s strange arrival was striking. Though, he could most assuredly find something alluring about him. That was not on his mind. Everyone was boring, no matter how odd. Moriarty wasn’t like him.

His fingers finally found a folder with Carl Powers written over the tab. He leaned back in the chair, feeling the upholstery stretch as the back bent with his weight. The files were simple enough, including the résumé he had submitted upon being hired and a few leftover course evaluations.  Just as Mrs. Hudson said, he wasn’t the most well-liked teacher in the University and his students were apt to admit this. Sherlock let his thumb flick through the other files deposited in there, until finding the last sheet. Printer paper, recycled, and in a typeface like the school’s e-mail systems. Tugging it out proved it to be a printed off copy of the e-mail Mr. Powers sent on December 18th, as it was dated.

His eyes read through the note for any kind of message. He tried the skip codes, usually every third or fourth word. Next was capitalized letters, but it seemed to just be written formally with only one instance of a misplaced capital letter. He tried the first letters, last ones, going down the number of letters until it too proved inconclusive. Seems Carl Powers wasn’t gifted with the foresight needed for leaving hidden messages. Obviously he didn’t have the foresight that he may be in danger.

The phone on the desk rang. It’s trilling was cacophonous in the emptied and silent school. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from jolting in his seat at the offending noise. He felt himself lean over, thin fingers extended and picking up the receiver of the phone, holding his breath.

“Brother, dear.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mouth screwing into a scowl of pursed lips.

“Let’s not make any more trouble. Get in the car outside.” The line clicked and ended before Sherlock could even breathe a word of contempt to Mycroft. He all but slammed the phone back into its cradle. Stupid, stupid Mycroft! He was ruining everything, he’d hardly even found anything worthwhile! The folder was slapped down onto the desk loudly, anger being taken out on the useless parcels. With a low growl, Sherlock did his breathing exercises. Useless really, but anything to keep him from kicking in the filing cabinet. After his ten seconds he organized the papers, slipping them back into the headmaster’s drawer.

His eyes caught an envelope that’s seal had been pressed down, as if it hadn’t been opened. He lifted it, observing the design that pressed old-fashioned wax down to close the flap, before slipping it into his inner jacket pocket. His lifted his violin case from the floor and took his merry time heading down the flight of stairs and out the courtyard. Sure enough, the auspicious black car was sitting idle, the rumbling of the engine being the only sound for miles.

He was mildly surprised that upon opening the back door to the car, Mycroft himself was sitting on the opposite seat. Sherlock put on his best scowl, setting the violin case in between the two brothers on the seat before slamming the door. He crossed his legs where he sat, hands crossed over his chest and eyes forward. He ignored the burning gaze of his elder brother next to him.

“Do I need to ask you to explain, little brother?”

“You can ask, but I may not answer.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft used _that_ voice, which was just the closest thing to scolding a disobedient child without kneeling down to their height. “I’d be willing to forget knowing about this if you just tell me why.”

“Well, I must say I definitely will not answer.” Sherlock’s eyes were glued out the window, watching the street lamps glowing and highlighting the barren streets. He heard Mycroft inhale, which was his posh way of letting out a sigh. He wouldn’t do the Sherlock sigh, naturally.

“Let me assure you that if it was your intention to get expelled this way, I won’t allow something so fickle to allow that to happen. However, it will not be repeated.” Sherlock said nothing, even as he felt his brother trying to get a rise from him. “Let us not have a repeat of what happened in secondary, brother. It’s hard to prove more embarrassing than that instance, but I’m sure you’d find a way.”

Sherlock scowled once more. Mycroft talked big like the branch of the government he had a hand in, but he didn’t have a clue. Even if he saw Sherlock in the school after hours, and where he was, and likely what he’d been browsing through. He was hiding something. The curiosity wouldn’t be sated just by giving up his search. The car pulled to a stop in front of the Holmes household, the younger of the two forcing his way out first with a fist clenched around the handle of his instrument case.

He stomped his way upstairs to his room, making sure Mycroft knew where he was heading as well as likely anyone nearby.  The bedroom door was shut less-politely than normal, and he let the violin case bounce as it hit his bed. A grumble left his lips, pacing the carpeted floors and dodging around his stacks of books and files. Fingers swiped the track pad of his laptop, releasing it from its long slumber. The screen illuminated, opening his spreadsheets and lists of websites he’d checked. Nothing about Carl Powers stood out, and yet he was missing. No matter how dull people were, someone had to have noticed his disappearance! 

Trust Sherlock to put faith in the common good when the sods can’t even file a good old fashioned missing person’s report.

And he had to be missing. His bank accounts here suspended, he had no new home address, no other occupation, or listed family. It was as though he didn’t exist. But no, he definitely did. This was no wandering rumor—Carl Powers was very real and possibly, very much in danger, if he hadn’t already found it.

His phone went off, and his heart nearly soared. Some of his contacts in the city were allowed to know his number. There were those rare moments his searches were very important, and photographs were required for evidence faster than a note passing system. He snatched it up and immediately scowled as it was from _Mycroft._ Leave it to him to know he wasn’t allowed to come to Sherlock’s door, but boss him around over text.

[SMS] Go to bed, Sherlock. MH

He tossed the phone onto the bed, watching it bounce so slightly next to the hard case of the string instrument. A grin flickered over his features, unsnapping the clasps on the violin’s case and withdrawing the instrument as gently as he could. He raised it to his chin, letting the bow tug against the strings slowly, beginning a somber and hypnotic tune sure to echo off the walls and carry down to Mycroft’s listening ears.

The music hardly stuck with the younger Holmes, simply being played from memory while his mind focused elsewhere.

Something had happened to Carl Powers, and he was not about to let the opportunity to find out what pass him by.

 

His playing welcomed the rising sun, and his fingers began to sting from where they pressed down the neck. He’d never felt more disappointed for it to be a Saturday, a day without classes. While he despised the classes it was as though being without them just kept him from discovering more facts about his self-proclaimed case.

He lifted his discarded coat from the back of his chair. At some point in the troublesome night he must have removed it. Lifting it to hang on the wall caused the envelope from the desk to flutter out from the pocket. He snatched it up, a smile over his lips.

Perhaps the weekend would go to good use after all.

Expensive paper type, even for a simple envelope. The wax was heavy too, not as synthetic as the ones sold cheaply in stores. It had dried long ago, still hanging tightly onto the flap of the envelope. A deep impression was made in it, like the old time rings that left a recognizable seal on the surface. This appeared to be of a type of bird. The sender obviously had a delicate touch, as every groove of the shape was intact and not pressed incorrectly in any direction. 

He held the parchment flat in both palms, raising it to his nose. He inhaled. If anything it smelled of his coat, but underneath he could smell the sharp scent of paper and wax. Another something—cologne maybe. It was too faint. A shame. If only he’d found it sooner. There was no writing on the exterior. Sherlock crossed the piles of things on the floor of his room to the desk, also coated with many things. A push of his arm over the surface made a space, taking a seat and flicking on the lamp hanging low. He carefully lifted the flap, tugging out the neatly folded paper within. He held his breath, blood pumping. Why would Doyle keep a sealed letter in a locked drawer if it wasn’t something relevant?

 

_Headmaster,_

_A large amount of suspicion has arisen within the faculty about Professor Powers’ sudden resignation. I’ve been informed by reliable sources that the subject should be left untouched, as the professor is no longer held on to University rules. The family of the professor has informed me that Professor Powers left due to personal reasons and they wish to have his salary dealt with immediately, and sent through the following method._

Sherlock’s eyes skimmed through numbers and bank accounts, obviously different from the main one that Mr. Powers’ funds had been sent to previously. More surprising, if Carl Powers had no family on record, how could they request this with the sender of the letter? After the instructions for the fee’s transactions was only a short paragraph.

 

_The sooner this is processed, the better things will be for Professor Powers. He wishes the university well and I have already relayed that we all wish him luck bettering his future._

_I’ve also included the information for a recommended candidate for a replacement instructor. Look over at your convenience._

_-J. Moore_

Sherlock returned to the letter to find that the included information was definitely not included. He would be surprised if it wasn’t the résumé for Professor Moriarty. What was becoming more interesting was finding where J. Moore came into the equation and what he knew about Carl Powers’ supposed and nonexistent family. He donned his coat and slipped the letter back into his pocket, all thoughts of hanging it up for the day forgotten. He had investigation to conduct. 


End file.
